The Relevance of Comfort
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Captain Janeway is concerned about Seven's clothes. "Are you free to move in that clingy thing? And how can you walk all day and regenerate all night in those heels?"


The Relevance of Comfort

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Star Trek: Voyager

Copyright: Paramount

"Coffee. Black."

Seven stood at attention, waiting, as Captain Janeway took the thermos mug out of the replicator and settled down in her chair. The stars streaked by outside the ready-room window; Seven looked around at the beige walls and grey carpeting, wondering what the Captain had to say and why she was taking so long about it.

"Have a seat, Seven."

Seven complied by lowering herself stiffly into a chair on the other side of the desk. Since she had been assimilated before ever going to school, she had no memories of being sent to the principal's office, but if she had, she would have felt something like this.

The older woman swiveled her chair around and sipped at her coffee, grimacing a little at its temperature. She cleared her throat and put down the mug.

"I've received a complaint, Seven," she said. "From Lieutenant Torres."

Seven showed no sign of her dismay. It seemed she could not even set foot in Engineering without transgressing some unwritten human rule, and the prickly Torres never let her forget it. What had she done now?

"I was not aware of that, Captain," she said.

The Captain took another sip, then held the mug in both fingers. Faint creases were showing around her eyes and mouth, looking suspiciously like signs of amusement.

"How shall I put this...?" she murmured. "Well, Seven...the trouble seems to be your clothes. She said something about a drop in productivity among your male colleagues ... apparently they find those suits of yours distracting."

Seven looked down at her form-fitting, tan-colored catsuit and high-heeled shoes; she couldn't see what was so funny.

"I fail to see why the men would find my dermoplastic garment distracting, Captain – nor why this should be a source of amusement to you."

The Captain grinned. "It's not so much the suits as...well, what they show," she said. "You do realize that you're a beautiful girl, don't you?"

"Beauty is irrelevant," Seven replied, not altogether comfortable with the direction this talk was taking. She did not want to turn into one of those silly females who obsessed about their bodies, the way she heard women talking in the mess hall – _Chocolate? Ugh, no thanks, it goes right to my hips!_ – as if they had nothing better to do. All the same, Seven _was_ rather thankful that her post-surgery appearance did not offend humanoid aesthetic principles. She had enough problems already.

"How about comfort and efficiency, then?" the Captain continued. "Are you free to move in that clingy thing? And how can you stand on those heels all day and night? My gosh, just looking at them makes my own feet hurt!" She stuck out one foot in a low-heeled black shoe from under the desk.

The Borg Seven found this nonsense. The human Seven was rather touched. She hadn't realized the Captain worried so much about her physical discomfort.

Honestly, the suits _were_ a trial. At first, she had welcomed the taut constriction of them as a faint echo of her Borg armor-plating, but not anymore. Often soaked with sweat at the end of the day, they clung to her like cellophane and it was an elaborate ritual just to take them off to use the lavatory. As for her legs and feet, the Doctor gave her a balm for blisters and a thorough weekly massage.

"The Doctor told me he designed these suits and shoes himself," she explained. "He said they 'combine function and aesthetics'. I have accepted them as one more ... inconvenience of being human."

The Captain looked torn between laughter and exasperation. "The Doctor!" she muttered, shaking her head. "I should've known. He may be a hologram, but in this respect he's a typical male."

She brushed back her bobbed hair with one hand, then leaned forward with her elbows on the desk. "Seven – I didn't say anything at first because I thought the suits were your own choice. I didn't want to compromise your individuality. But if they really make you uncomfortable, you can tell me. I'll be glad to help."

The Captain's firm, scratchy voice softened a little as she looked at Seven over the rim of her mug. "Maybe I could take you shopping on the holodeck sometime," she said, smiling again. "How about that?"

"Explain, Captain."

"It's something women often do together," said the Captain. "Trying on clothes, exchanging opinions about them...you may find this irrelevant, Seven, but people's clothes are an important way of expressing themselves as individuals. Even our Starfleet uniforms – " She gestured to her red-and-black jacket. "When I wear this, you see, I represent a whole set of values and principles. I show my rank, my achievements, my pride in my community, and so does everyone on board this ship."

The uniforms were something Seven could understand. The Borg wore identical armor as well. But what did the Captain mean by individual expression?

"What about Mr. Neelix?" Seven asked, remembering the only other non-uniformed member of the crew. "He does not wear a uniform. What do his clothes say about him?"

The Captain's face lit up with a teacher's pride – she had got Seven's attention. "Well... they're very colorful," she said. "They match his cheerful personality. Also, I believe the patterns and outfits are Talaxian...reminders of the homeworld he lost."

Seven wondered what was better – losing one's home as a child and forgetting it, or losing it as an adult and carrying the memories with you all your life? In any case, Voyager was her home now.

"I see," she said. "But, Captain... how would I know which clothes express my personality?" Was it a sort of code one had to learn, like a language?

"The ones you like," said the Captain, with a shrug. "It's a matter of experimenting – what feels good and comfortable to wear? What sort of colors, fabrics and styles do you prefer? What makes you feel proud of yourself when you look in the mirror? That sort of thing."

Her eyes took on a wistful, faraway look; perhaps she was thinking about Earth and the girl friends she had once gone shopping with.

"Very well," said Seven. "I will try this...shopping."

The Captain beamed.

=/\=

When Seven walked into Engineering the next day in flat black shoes, loose-fitting black pants and a snug, but not clingy, turquoise V-neck sweater, her hair pulled back with a silver butterfly clip, there was a wave of astonishment. The male Ensign closest to the door shrank like a deflated balloon; a woman standing next to him scowled enviously at her uniform sleeves. Even Vorik, the Vulcan, raised an eyebrow.

Lieutenant Torres walked up to Seven and paused.

"Still a distraction, eh?" she said, hands on hips, a crooked smile on her face. "But I guess that's not your fault."

"Are you still criticizing my personal appearance?" Seven gritted her teeth. After all of yesterday's time, debates, and replicator rations –

"No, no." Torres sighed, brushing back a strand of brown hair across her ridged forehead. "I just – you look nice."

The unexpected compliment from Torres, of all people, almost took Seven's breath away.

"Thank you," she said.

Captain Janeway, peering through the doors later that day, smiled to see the results of their combined handiwork: Seven walked without a hint of stiffness or pain, every line of her figure softened by the new clothes. It was one more step from the existence of a drone to the life of a woman; one more step to freedom.


End file.
